


nothing to be sorry for (all that he needs)

by privateerwrites



Series: These lines aren't wrinkles [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aramis has asthma, Athos spends the who fic as a pillow, Comfort, Couch Cuddles, Cuddles, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Sleepy Cuddles, Talking, disabled Aramis, only teen for language, porthos is worried about aramis, they do actually talk about things!, which is cool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29600625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/privateerwrites/pseuds/privateerwrites
Summary: Athos and Porthos take care of Aramis for the first time and everyone learns some things. Ft. gentle Athos, concerned Porthos, and Aramis being a bit very out of it for a while[these lines aren't wrinklesverse, can be read without other parts]
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon
Series: These lines aren't wrinkles [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084148
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	nothing to be sorry for (all that he needs)

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to Eren-galad for putting up with my questions about Spanish and helping me out!!! <3

Aramis is gasping, a little. He can feel it, feel the pressure where there shouldn't be any, feel the tightness as his chest conspires against him. Normally, he'd just go take some albuterol and lay down for a long while against some pillows. It's dinner, though, and he's already been blowing Porthos and Athos off a lot this week for a whole span of reasons. They should get to see him- they're his best friends and favorite people, and he feels bad for abandoning them.  
  
He's maybe being a bit less of a chatterbox to compensate for the whole "no-breath" issue, and while Athos gives him a strange look for not adding a quip when he maybe should have (would have normally, would have if he could breathe, goddammit it's not that bad Aramis), he rather thinks he's succeeding at being properly functional.  
  
That is, he thinks he's being properly functional until, when he gets up to put dishes in the sink, small dots of light dance across his vision. He pauses for far, far too long, and Porthos somehow manages to be behind him and push him back down in his chair.  
  
"Alright, tha's it, what's wrong, Aramis?" Porthos' voice leaves no room for argument or debate. It says that there most certainly is something wrong, and that Aramis also is required to tell him.  
  
"I'm just fine," Aramis says, and though he's a little winded, he makes it through the sentence without having to pause for breath- not exactly a _great_ accomplishment, but he's rather proud of it. He stands, brushing Porthos' hands off of his shoulders.  
  
"You two enjoy movie night!" Aramis calls behind himself as he heads to his room, resigned now to the fact that he is going to need medication to be okay again. He closes the door and sinks to the floor, knees to his chest. He lets his head flop back against the solid wood for a moment or two before acknowledging that this is not helping. Slowly, he walks to his closet and pulls out the bag that holds his emergency meds and considers for a moment.  
  
Decision made, he grabs the black machine and a tube of medication, and heads over to the outlet at the wall. He plugs it in with maybe more force than is strictly necessary. After briefly pausing to hack up what feels like his entire lung capacity, he screws off the mouthpiece of the chamber and pours the medication in. He puts the mouthpiece back on, double checks that the end of the tubing is firmly attached to the nebulizer, puts the mouthpiece in his mouth, and flicks the on switch.  
  
The heavy buzzing of the machine fills his ears and mouth and face, and he leans back against the bedframe, tucking his legs into his body and letting his head loll back against the cool metal. He breaths in deep, watches the vapor flow out of his nose.  
  
_Mi dragoncín,_ he hears his mother's voice saying in his head, and he wishes she were here, rubbing his leg, holding his head and stroking his hair afterwards.  
  
He can feel the meds start to kick in, and breathing, even through the mouthpiece, becomes suddenly easier. His heart starts thudding hard against his ribcage, and he can feel his arms start to loosen, and he remembers that he hates this part.  
  
The machine starts sputtering, running out of liquid to vaporize, and he shakes the chamber back and forth a few times before deciding that it really is done and turning it off. Slowly, carefully, he clambers to his feet and pulls himself onto his bed. He curls up in the middle, feeling as through his entire body is shaking apart.  
  
There are two gentle knocks on the door, so careful he thinks he might be imagining them.  
  
" 'Mis?"  
  
He takes a deep breath in. This is what he didn't want.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You don't have to- if you-," Porthos’ voice says, muffled through the door.  
  
Athos' voice breaks in.  
  
"I believe what he's trying to say is that if you're not healthy, you don't have to hide from us, Aramis."  
  
"I'm-," here, Aramis has to stop to cough, and it's a long, long moment of painful, barking coughing before he can speak again. "Fine."  
  
"Aramis," comes Porthos' voice from the door. "Let us in, please."  
  
He gets off the bed, and stumbles to the door, giving in to the desire for human contact and to be cared for. He turns the doorknob, opens the door.  
  
Standing there are Porthos and Athos, looking angry and concerned and worried all at once, and Aramis has to take a moment to reassure himself quietly that they do not hate him, that this is not what Porthos' hate looks like or Athos' disdain.  
  
He gestures them in. The nebulizer is still sitting on the floor, black cord reaching to the wall and plastic tubing curling on the ground, the chamber now laying on the carpet.  
  
_Fuck_ , he thinks tiredly. He'll pick it up later.  
  
Athos sweeps across the room and Aramis follows him, settling cross-legged on the bed while Athos sits on the edge, Porthos taking Aramis' other side. Porthos inhales and pauses, like he has a lot to say and is just taking a moment before beginning a barrage, but Athos, observing this, holds a hand up in Porthos' direction. Porthos closes his mouth slowly.  
  
"What do you need?" Athos asks.  
  
Aramis feels like his head is spinning a little. He hasn't been asked that in- in years, if he's being honest, and just someone asking is... it's a lot. He pursues his lips and thinks. He eyes Athos up and down quickly.  
  
"Hold me?"  
  
"Which one of us?"  
  
It's a fair question, because Aramis is more tactile with Porthos in the bigger ways- things like cuddles and hugs are a regular part of their friendship. With Athos, it's smaller things, a kiss on the cheek or a side hug.  
  
"Athos."  
  
Athos' face contorts into an odd shape that Aramis doesn't recognize, which at once delights him and confuses him- learning new things about Athos is one of his favorite pastimes, but he really thought that he'd learned all of Athos' facial expressions long ago. It settles again back into one Aramis recognizes fast enough that he thinks he might've imagined it, except for the very real fact that he knows he didn't.  
  
"How do you want to do this?" Athos' voice is gentle, asking no more from Aramis than what he absolutely needs to know, and Aramis appreciates it vastly.  
  
He takes a deep breath in to answer, but instead of words, he ends up in a coughing fit that wracks his entire body and leaves his eyes watering. He gasps, and it starts all over again, leaving him with spit on his lips and a raw throat and a desire to just curl up and cry.  
  
Porthos is looking at him with something that resembles pity wholly too much for Aramis' comfort right now, and so he turns to Athos instead.  
  
Athos looks at him.  
  
"How do you want to do this," he asks again, as if it's just as simple as that.  
  
"I- you- uh-"  
  
"Okay," Athos says softly. "Where do you want me?"  
  
"Here," Aramis replies, almost immediately. He doesn't have the energy to walk- he's actually pretty sure that if he attempts standing right now, he will fall over. "I- uh, the goal is to be propped up at a shallow angle-" _breath_ "-so maybe just-" something catches in his throat, and he's back it at again.  
  
Athos rubs his upper arm gently, slowly, and Aramis, once he stops coughing, mimics the pace of Athos' hand with his breathing.  
  
"I'll lay down, and you tell me if I'm in the wrong place," Athos says firmly, and Aramis nods.

  
He lays back against the pillows Aramis has at the head of his bed, his back against the stack of three and his legs spread out into a wide vee shape. Aramis turns and settles his back against Athos' chest, letting Athos bear his full weight.  
  
"Alright," Athos asks quietly, and Aramis nods. Porthos reaches out and grabs Aramis' hand and Aramis weakly links their fingers together. Now that he isn't the only one supporting himself, the rest of the effects of the medication are kicking in.  
  
His arms go limp and his head rolls to the side. His heart keeps thundering at a heavy pace and his chest feels like it's vibrating. He lets his eyes close, because keeping them open is too much work. He knows that his fingers are now just sitting in Porthos', not holding or doing anything more than being settled there.  
  
Athos slowly starts to card one hand through his hair, and though he can't fall asleep, Aramis is soothed into a half-awake state. Porthos rubs his thumb across the back of Aramis' hand in long, sweeping arcs and Athos keeps his hand in Aramis' hair, stroking it gently.  
  
"Is 'e gonna be alright," Porthos asks at one point, though it's clear the question is not directed at Aramis.  
  
"Yes. He'll be fine, after some rest. Most likely, anyway."  
  
"I wish he'd-"  
  
"Me too, Porthos."  
  
"D' you think it's because-"  
  
"Maybe. I don't know."  
  
"Right, then."  
  
Aramis eventually slowly drifts off, held between the two people he most cares about, taken care of and safe.  
  
When he wakes up, he's covered in something warm, and his hand is wrapped up in what feels like a mitten, and his back is pressed against what feels like a heater. After he sorts through the haze of pain in his head- ribs, sore like hell; side, aching fiercely; throat, on fire but manageable- he reorients himself to the room and leans his head back, only to find that instead of falling backwards into soft pillows, it's settled against something decidedly solid.  
  
_Athos,_ his brain supplies helpfully. _It's Athos._  
  
Aramis turns his head towards the mitten-encased hand and sure enough, the warmth sheathing it is not a mitten but instead Porthos' hand.  
  
"Good morning," Athos says quietly. He's reading a book over Aramis' head, and he presses a kiss to Aramis' hair.  
  
"Hi," Aramis croaks out. He grimaces a little at the sound of his voice. It's a raspy, feeble whisper that he does not enjoy one bit and rather wishes to clear his throat of. He doesn't, if only because clearing his throat would wake Porthos and do very little to improve his voice on the whole.  
  
"Are you feeling better?"  
  
Aramis takes a shaking, tentative breath. He can feel it properly fill his lungs, and he nods.  
  
"Good," Athos murmurs, and slides his hand into Aramis' free one, rubbing circles on the back of his hand with his thumb. They lay there like that until Porthos wakes up, slowly and then all at once, something you don't notice until it's already begun but once it's begun you cannot avoid it.  
  
"Mornin'," he says softly.  
  
"Hi," Aramis replies in an intentional whisper, keeping his voice low- that, at least, doesn't sound awful.  
  
Porthos pulls him to his chest, and Aramis cuddles closer to his warmth.  
  
"Hi," Porthos says softly after a long moment. "You scared us."  
  
Aramis grimaces.  
  
"I'm sorry. I'll-"  
  
"You have nothin' to be sorry for, yeah? Jus' wish you'd told us sooner, Aramis."  
  
Porthos has now twisted to prop himself up on one arm on the bed, facing Aramis.  
  
"I'm sorry," Aramis mutters again.  
  
"Don't apologize for something you cannot control," Athos says. "You had no need to tell us, it was not necessary or an issue. You are fine." It sounds a little rehearsed, like something he's said quite more often than once, and that soothes Aramis a little.  
  
"You get dressed and we'll make breakfast and then we can talk," he states, and it sounds a little more like an order than an option, but Aramis nods along anyway.  
  
Porthos and Athos climb out of his bed carefully, and step around all of the things on the floor of the room that would otherwise be tripping hazards, making their way to the door slowly, but leaving uninjured.  
  
Aramis take his time getting dressed. It's Sunday, and he has nowhere to be, and so he pulls on his favorite pair of sweatpants (a gift from Porthos), a worn-out t-shirt that he sleeps in frequently, and his favorite sweatshirt (which technically belongs to Athos, but it's been over half a year and Athos hasn't asked for it back, so Aramis has decided it's his now).  
  
He walks across the hall, brushes his teeth slowly, runs his fingers though his hair.  
  
_I should cut it_ , he thinks absently. He takes one last look at himself in the mirror, splashes some water on his face, and realizes that he's just procrastinating.  
  
Still, he draws out the walk to the table longer than necessary, buying himself a little more time before he has to face them again.  
  
Porthos has made pancakes and sausages, and Aramis' heart swells, because this is his favorite meal that Porthos makes, silly as it sounds, and the comforting smell of cooking soothes his nerves a little.  
  
He and Athos wait together on the stools outside the kitchen as Porthos cooks through the batter he's made, transfixed by his skill and the smell of the food. Aramis' heartbeat calms itself as he realizes slowly that they won't ambush him with questions and won't push for more than what he's willing to say, when he’s willing to say it. It's a nice feeling, to know that they care about him like that.  
  
Eventually, the batter is cooked, the sausages are done, the table is set, and it is officially breakfast time. They all sit down, and for a few moments, the room is quiet but for the sound of silverware clinking against plates.  
  
"We will not ask for more than you want to tell," Athos starts, setting his fork down.  
  
"I've got- we've got- a couple of questions, but you don' owe us anything, alright," Porthos says softly.  
  
"Alright," Aramis says.  
  
"Was that- was last night normal?"  
  
Aramis considers this.  
  
"It was an exacerbated version of normal. It's usually not that bad, so just- I suppose normal would be that but turned down to five instead of eleven?"  
  
Porthos looks a little disturbed by this answer. Athos, however, nods a little and takes another bite of his pancakes. Aramis takes a deep breath in, because they're both looking at him sort of expectantly, as if they want him to keep talking, and best to get it over with now, let them judge him now.  
  
"I- I have asthma. That was- that was just a bad asthma attack, that's all." He can feel the shame he's used to dump itself over his head in a bucket worth, and he tucks himself into his food with maybe a little more vigor than is necessary.  
  
"Do you wanna-"  
  
Aramis shakes his head. He's fairly certain he knows where that question is going, and no, he doesn't want to talk about it more. He'd rather like to hide and forget this ever happened, but since that's not going to be an option, he hides behind his pancakes and exhaustion.  
  
They pile onto the couch after breakfast to watch a movie, and because Porthos declares that it's Aramis' turn to choose (even though it definitely isn't), they watch The Princess Bride. He tucks himself into Porthos, and Porthos seems content to just hold him. The three of them pass the day like that, occasionally getting up to make tea or just a cup of hot water with lemon juice.  
  
It's easy company, and though maybe Porthos treats Aramis with a little more care than strictly necessary for the first while, and Athos is a little gentler with the spices in the hot cocoa, Aramis finds himself relaxing into their presence, letting them be there for him.  
  
They have leftovers for dinner, a meal for which Porthos keeps apologizing and Athos and Aramis thoroughly enjoy. He's made an egg-rice-veggie scramble that is excellent, and it warms Aramis through his mildly sore body in a way that is special to good food.  
  
And yes, maybe they do spend the rest of the night on the couch with Athos reading to them. And yes, maybe Aramis falls asleep on his chest. And yes, maybe, just maybe, Aramis thinks he could do this forever, if this is all he has to endure for needing help.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos greatly appreciated! As always, if Tumblr is more your thing, I'm over there at privateerstudies!


End file.
